*Peeks head out warily* Hi... Long time no see, right? *Mumbles grouchily* I wonder if FanFiction gives out awards for slowest updater...
I would so win! Hands down. Anyway, this damn chapter, I will tell you, was the BIGGEST pain in the ass to write. It trumps every chapter before it by leagues. Ugh. But I gritted my teeth, took it by the horns and kicked its ass till it was finished... eight months later... Don't know if anyone is still out there, but here we go!
Chapter 20: The First of Many Nails
"We build the hope!
We are believers!
Hands to the sky, I am a dreamer!
I'm reaching closer,
High on a fever!
Holes in the sky,
Pierced by the fire!
Somebody heal me from my pain!
Somebody pull me from the dark!
Somebody tell me this is real!
Somebody free me from my chains!"
Hole in the Sky by M83 ft. HAIM
Wednesday evening, 3:01, June 7, Marineford...
Darkness, when you were surrounded by it, had a way of desensitizing its quarry. Numbing the senses to all outside stimuli till only a vague memory remained; no longer comforting, no longer a source of solace, the memories had morphed over time, the darkness twisting them into a weapon. A double-edged sword. Because when left all alone in the dark, with nothing but your thoughts and your failures, anyone would be tempted to pick up that sword and run themselves through with it, to escape reality, to dive back into the past, even if it hurt. But pain had become the norm, a constant companion in the pitch-blackness. What did it matter if he intentionally added to it, himself?
The small measure of peace was worth it, and in the end, it was what kept Portgas D. Ace sane.
But he was so, so close to the edge. A part of him coveted the drop, the precipice of surrender. Wanting, even needing, an end to the torment; to the bitter hell his life had become. Yet, there was a spark inside him, an inner light buried deep within his soul, that resisted the pull of insanity. Struggled and fought against the tide of defeat that stalked him from the shadows of his holding cell, relentless in its pursuit, tireless as it fueled the conflict raging beneath his battered skin.
Conflict…
Another constant presence. Another blasted companion he didn't want, but had to entertain nonetheless.
It divided him, tore him to bits, brought him to tears, incensed his bones and his heart, made him doubt, made him flee the tangled, chaotic mess of his mind. In running, however, there was no relief, for when he emerged from his thoughts the darkness wasthere and ready to greet him with the reality of his situation.
Trapped. Tortured. Weak. Chained. Alone.
Forced to wait. Wait for death; for his execution.
It was a vicious cycle, one he could not escape. One he didn't know how to escape. But… the real question was…
Did he want to?
Did he want to live?
Or, did he deserve to die?
Was this Fate telling him that he didn't deserve to live? Was his capture Fates doing? The writing of a wrong; the wrong being his birth and the subsequent death of his mother. His poor, innocent mother…
The mother he'd killed to come into the world. A world that called him a demon because of the unfortunate relation he shared with a man he'd never met, would never meet, and forever loathed.
Gol D. Roger. The Pirate King. His biological father.
Tch.
He would hate that man to the day he died - which wasn't so far off.
He would hate himself more for being his son and not the son of Edward Newgate.
Pops… His one true father. The only father he would ever acknowledge.
But he wasn't here, he was alone, and Ace hoped, heart squeezing painfully, that he wouldn't come.
Stay away Pops! Please, stay away! I'm not worth it!
And there lie another one of his many conflicts. Another secret argument that sliced him down the middle.
To want him to come, or not want him to come?
Round and round, reason after reason, hour after hour; he wrestled with it, never really knowing which side he stood on, never standing on solid ground, always in limbo, always at war with himself. When the war became too overwhelming - the mental anguish more than he could take - he retreated from the fight altogether, backtracking to the bleak emptiness of his cell, dull, tired eyes staring at the chipped stones that encompassed him in a 8x10 room of windowless underground rock.
He never looked forward. Never looked at the bars. It was always down or to the side. Ace didn't need a visible reminder of his captivity.
Feeling it was enough.
The heavy seastone shackles binding his arms above him, the metal spotted and streaked with blood. The waves of nullification energy that sealed away the flame of his power in a place he could not reach, left him feeling chilled and vulnerable. The deep, festering cuts on his wrists from the too-tight manacles. The burning ache in his shoulder-joints from the strain of his position. The frigid, stale air he was forced to inhale and the cold, cold ground. The infected wounds from Impel Down's daily torture that no one cared to treat because he was on death row.
Ace could handle feeling when it came down to it- he was a pirate and pirates were old pals with pain and hardship - but hearing it was almost too much. As a pirate he was used to sound, hell, a whole slew of different sounds; the noisy, animated chatter of his 'family', the booming rumble of his Pops laughing, the constant roar and din of the sea, the wail and moaning of the New World winds…
Gods, he missed the sounds of freedom.
He missed the sea.
He missed so many things, he couldn't count them all in one day. He missed them so damned much.
For all the torture the marines had thrown his way, this was the worst; hearing - simply left to sit and hear… nothing… but the clinking and clanging of his chains, the unnerving silence, and his labored breathing. Such shallow, weak breaths they were… And… wait… were those… footsteps?
Footsteps.
Echoing. Headed towards his cell.
Great. It was probably Garp coming for round two; another long, arduous - angry - talk about choices and 'whys' and tense stare-downs that spoke too many words and too many regrets. Afterward, he was always left with more conflict then before. It was exhausting.
Everything was exhausting.
Heaving a sigh, Portgas D. Ace waited. That was all he could do, anyhow.
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The underground detainment facility Marineford sported was a dank, dismal place. Well-maintained, secure, and… under-manned. But that was to be expected, wasn't it? Because every able-bodied soldier was above-ground, assuming their positions and receiving last minute orders from superior officers. In other words, they were all busy, all blind – so, so blind and so utterly naive! – to the threat, the true threat, that lurked behind their white polished walls.
What did one such as he expect though? They were human. They were mortal. They were alive. Weak, ignorant filth. Disgusting.
If he could Xanthir would have already washed his hands of the proud marines long ago, but, much as he loathed to admit it, he needed Admiral Akainu a little while longer. After everything was said and done, he would be snipping the strings to that particular puppet without an ounce of remorse. No one was allowed to hurt what was his and Sakazuki Akainu had been the leading marine after Sklestia and Jineiia's lives.
Which was why he was a puppet now.
The soulless couldn't touch the divine. Only he was worthy of that honor.
"Oooh, look who decided to grace us with his presence! C'mon, tell me! Are you psyched? 'Cause I know I am! Woo, I am so ready to kill some mortals! So… damn… ready!" the Right Hand of the Skeleton King crowed excitedly, acid green eyes gleaming with an unholy sadistic light. He watched, lean frame casually slouched beside the door leading down into the holding cells, as Xanthir prowled through the Fade towards him, penetrating purple gaze trained on the item carried carefully in puppet-Akainu's hands.
The Synergy cuffs.
Just the sight of them and all they represented filled him with unspeakable emotion, one that pumped through his dead heart like poison, corroding all it touched; infecting him with urges and impulses and the need to proceed. While he ignored most of his base desires the insistent call of his instincts was telling.
The time to act was now upon him, and he could implement the first stage of his plan. Readying the bait.
Gol D. Ace. Three/fourths Gifted. So not completely disgusting, though he'd been born the human way, which Xanthir found to be quite revolting. How mortal females tolerated pushing live young from their bodies without being nauseated by it was beyond him but… But he was getting off topic… A pair of cold, reptilian eyes narrowed in displeasure at his own trivial whimsy. So close. He was so close and his mind wandered. How undisciplined of him.
Sneering, he stiffened - coming back to himself and his purpose - and then, in a smooth flourish of silks and silver the Skeleton King stalked right through the door, physical barriers nothing to one who walked in the Fade. He did not spare one look at his Right Hand nor even a cursory glance at his puppet; so intent was he in reclaiming mental focus.
Azrael, in the wake of Xanthir's chilly exit, rolled his lime green eyes before nonchalantly phasing through the door after him, silent as death.
At some silent command inaudible to all but the one giving it, the puppet-Akainu regained normal posture befitting his 'character', seamlessly assuming the face and severity of the late admiral. From the shadows behind him appeared two marines dressed in tan fatigues with two green stripes down the front; their uniforms were clean and pressed - perfect, in fact, everything about them seemed perfect, normal.
Except their eyes.
For a second their eyes were hollow, dead holes; no life, no personality, no will. For a single second the sickly stench of rotting flesh pervaded the hallway. However, it was only a second and seconds were quick to pass; in the next moment the facade slipped back into place and anything unnatural vanished, slithering behind the human faces that looked to their better for directions, stances set sharply at attention.
Akainu stared at his subordinates, hard features revealing nothing, gaze merciless as it drilled into the two lower ranked officers. Then: "You two, come with me now. We have scum to collect and execute." Ruby-red manacles in hand, the admiral turned on his heel and entered the holding cells, strides sharp and precise.
The heavy metal door slid shut quietly, the two marines marching smartly after their superior.
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His instincts noticed it first – that innate response to outside stimuli alerted by the change in the air, the inner voice of self-preservation sent into a frenzy because of it; clamoring, flailing, screaming inside of him as something foul becomes known – before his regular senses could grasp the danger.
His sense of smell comes second – that keen nose of his wrinkling up in distaste the moment his mind registers the scent of… something that has been dead for weeks and been left out to rot and fester. When it really sinks in Ace is treated to the worst olfactory assault in his life and his mind nearly buckles under the horrid smell, naming it the scent of nightmares. He tries to hold his breath, tries to wait it out, but he needs to breathe and when he does it's there, wafting into his sensitive nostrils like mustard gas. Ace can't stop it, he gags, throat convulsing as he dry heaves, because it smells like regurgitated corpses and rotting flesh and infected wounds and fetid trash heaps all rolled into one. Gasping makes it worse and for a prolonged moment of doubt, Portgas D. Ace believes his nose is like a sewer, a sewer that will never, ever be clean.
His mind catches up and he finally feels it and, amazingly, it rips the entire scope of his attention away from the noxious smell. It starts as a little, vague niggle in the back of his brain; a mere shadow of an idea; a pale notion; a see-through realization. It puzzles him for a nanosecond - that feeling you get when you realize something is different but the 'what' eludes you - then he understands…
There is something in the air. Although, once again, he can't quite grasp what it is.
But he knows whatever it is, is making him uneasy, tense in both body and mind, and it's not the footsteps coming closer, meters away down the hall. It's something else. An unnatural, queer sort of something that Ace has no name for and no prior knowledge of. Only an instinctive inkling; a warning his subconscious self wants so badly to heed, if only he weren't chained and weak.
Then.
It makes contact. Sweeping through him like a slow creeping sickness. A cancer. A disease; crawling across his skin to pierce his pores with icicles and acid, to dig shards of bitter ice deep into his bones and freeze his marrow. Shuddering, Ace struggles to breathe, lungs burning with every reluctant drag of cold, frozen air. And that is what it is, he realizes with a violent shiver—the change in the air; the something he felt…is cold.
Cold.
Knife-edged, mind-numbing waves of cold: invisible and far more draining than seastone handcuffs. It is a cold that transcends any in waking memory for it put to shame New World weather and every winter island storm he'd ever braved. In fact, it is a cold Ace had never encountered before; had only ever heard about from other pirates too drunk to grow unnerved by their own brush with it.
…The deathly cold embrace of death…
The thought was so sudden and unexpected, so true and enlightening that it drove the breath from Ace's body and for a tense, disbelieving moment he was stuck in suspended animation. Even as he struggled to take in a lungful of icy air, the clarity of his epiphany raced through him, widening his eyes and quickening his heart. No longer did he wear a veil of confusion, every second of incomprehension now thrown into sharp relief; the macabre puzzle finally pieced together. Each jagged, foreboding piece sliding seamlessly into place to give him the big picture.
And what a frightening picture it was…
Death.
He swallowed thickly, throat parched and thirsty; thoughts assailing him relentlessly in his moment of understanding.
Was it coming for him?
Was he feeling it now, its embrace?
Would he die down here, all alone and beaten?
Would he be forgotten by Pops and Marco and Luffy and everyone?
Portgas D. Ace trembled in the merciless cold, instincts wailing inside him, clawing for life, olfactory senses still writhing in disgust. The craggy frigid mass that was his brain continued to assault him, vicious doubts and old fears and new ideas lancing through him, slicing to the center of his being with brutal precision.
One single thought rose above all others, carrying with it a burgeoning notion Ace never got the chance to fully explicate.
Why did it feel like death was right there in the roo—
"I sincerely hope you're not dead yet, pirate scrum, because that would spoil your execution."
It was a male voice that broke his reverie, in a tone of arrogance that immediately grated against his nerves; his teeth gritting - hostility seething to the surface - the instant he recognized that voice.
Admiral Akainu.
A fierce loathing ignited the dark pyre of his eyes and he brought that burning gaze up, glaring through lank strands of black hair, at the marine (monster) standing with so many airs outside his holding cell. Stance so superior, posture so utterly haughty and condescending that it sickened him just to stare at the man. Ace curled his lips back in a snarl, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists above their shackles. He would have spat at him if his mouth didn't resemble sandpaper; Akainu only deserved the worst sort of insult out there, the sanctimonious bastard.
"Spoil? No, you got it all wrong; the only one spoiling anything is you, so go take your ugly, self-righteous backside somewhere else." There was a red-hot hatred in his voice, like that of a dog on a choke leash, forced to heel and submit.
Akainu did not deign to respond to the filth's vulgar comment; it was beneath him anyway. In any event, his silence worked better as a retort than any actual reply; not saying anything with this one always infuriated him. A futile show of emotion, of course, but he did so enjoy watching pirates squirm when they were trapped. Even better when they knew it too, yet fell to their useless anger all the same. It was pathetic if he really stopped to think about it.
But pirates were a pathetic lot as it is, so it didn't matter.
Fury. Intense, flesh-searing fury. Dizzying as it raged through every cell in his body. How dare that piece of shit just brush him off like that! As if he were worthless; a waste of space! Jaw clenched, he bared his teeth in a slash of white that shone bright in the darkness of his cell. More than a little angry and itching with the need to wipe the holier-than-thou smirk from his face, Ace drew in a deep hissing breath, the muscles in his legs twitching, as if readying themselves for combat.
But a second later – one of tension and stalemate – Ace deflated, knowing intuitively that his temper was wasted; a venture that was largely unavailing and tedious in the end. However, that surely did not stop him from feeling said temper nor did it stop him from glaring daggers at the admiral who'd made it his business to make his last days a living hell.
Fucker…
"Get him ready," Akainu ordered disdainfully, sneering eyes peering through the bars at Ace with utmost spite. He made a gesture of some sort to the side that Ace failed to catch and didn't care to; whatever the asshole did was no business of his. He snorted sardonically and promptly froze, tensing so fast his muscles seized and stung. There was a sound floating into his ears…
Familiar. Suspicious. Hair-rising.
The clinking of shackles.
Only he wasn't moving and this particular clinking sounded different to what he was used to; it was lighter, clearer in tone, and not unlike the high tinkling of a bell. Ace found the pure sound disturbing in ways he couldn't explain. Disquieted, he looked to the source of the clinking and stared, unable to come to grips with what he saw.
A deep, vibrant crimson. Glass-like. Incomplete. Unknown make. Seemingly fragile looking.
Broken manacles?
And they sat in the palm of Akainu's hand, their appearance akin to a wall decoration rather than actual restraint. Even so, Ace felt a certain wariness take hold of him at the sight of the strange cuffs. For all their beauty he could not shake the feeling of trepidation that resembled a stone in his gut. A very, very heavy stone. It grew heavier when Ace watched the bastard hand those foreboding shackles over to two men he hadn't noticed before.
What is going on? What is happening?
He frowned. Those weren't regulation restraints and they definitely weren't seastone handcuffs.
What the hell?
And they were for him? The frown deepened.
He couldn't wrap his head around it and a buried piece of him that lay dormant desperately didn't want him to; didn't want anything to do with those abnormal abominations.
Then those two inconspicuous men dressed in tan fatigues walked forward, one with his hand in his pocket, the other cradling…
Ace swallowed back bile, spine shivering as those things came closer. His instincts were screaming again; frenzied and blaring, louder than ever before. So loud that he could almost imagine the words they were shrieking at him in a panic. Almost. That is if instinct actually had a voice.
(Danger! Danger! Wrong! All wrong! Don't let it touch you! Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Twisted, tainted creation!)
Oh, if only he could hear those silent, secret voices.
Creak-shrieeek!
Went the door, bars swinging to the side noisily. The sound of footsteps in his prison echoed ominously a moment later and Ace stiffened, muscles twitching, body taut like a bowstring. They skulked closer. And closer…Blood roared in his ears at their proximity, drowning out the hollow thud of boot soles on concrete as his anxiety ripped through him, the dread of his situation freezing him where he sat. From then on, Ace swore he'd left his body behind, because he could see everything, feel everything as if it were another person experiencing it.
Not him. Not him.
For a while it worked. For a while he existed as a specter hovering on the sidelines, watching as two men roughly unchained some poor, beaten down pirate from the wall. He watched as they hurled the weak man off the icy floor to stand him on two emaciated legs. He watched that same man battle an unfathomable medley of emotion, fighting tooth and nail to keep it from showing on his face. He watched that man fight and nearly succeed but for one single feeling; one that shone like the sun in his dull black eyes.
Terror.
A visceral, purely instinctive terror that stemmed from the seat of his soul; the heart of his being. The intensity and focus of this terror dragged him back into the man's body so fast and so violently all he could do was gasp; choke on the irrepressible flood of base sensation that tore at him like the relentless pounding of the incoming tide. And it only heightened, that primal fear gripping him from the inside, when Ace saw the marine holding those ruby-red shackles approach him from the left. Approach him with the intent of clicking those things around his bloody, cut up wrists.
Just the idea of it, the mental image of it happening, petrified and he stood: static, rigid, body imitating a stone statue. Face frozen and pallid, wan features stuck between alarm and apprehension; Ace trembled, his bones vibrating as the panic punched through him, leaving him winded. Breathless. Horrified.
His instincts rose to the fore then, the din of frantic impulses telling him one thing; to move away, to run, to escape the deadly grasp of those abominations. But it was in-efficacious; nothing more than a useless warning he couldn't heed.
He was too weak; the strength of his legs barely enough to hold him up. He remained chained; the seastone handcuffs dousing the warmth of his flames to cold grey ashes. And he was trapped; alone in enemy territory with no allies and no weapons. No escape.
There was nothing he could do. Nothing but stand and shake and stare as the man with the red shackles marched behind him, out of sight but not out of mind. Because Ace couldn't see what was happening, he strained every other sense to give him a picture. And where sight fails, hearing triumphs; he could hear every little nuance that man made.
Not that it was a good thing.
In all actuality… listening in made his situation worse. Unable to see, unable to watch, his hearing caught even the most muted of sounds and it bolstered the raw, preternatural terror in his soul, exacerbating the fear, making it choking and unbearable. He couldn't even rationalize the terror; didn't understand why the strange manacles incited within him such fright.
Then he heard it.
A bell-like clinking resonating in his ears.
Followed by the distinct - and deafening - click of an opening cuff.
His vision whitened. Hyperventilation set in. Vertigo and light-headedness were quick to follow.
Portgas D. Ace never noticed the removal of his seastone handcuffs after that. Didn't hear the ringing clang as they fell to the floor, forgotten. He was too focused on the feeling of his arms being wrenched up behind him, too focused on the coo- warm? slide of cuffs being slid into place to really notice his surroundings.
Seconds ticked by and click went the shackles around Ace's lacerated wrists, then suddenly he was being dragged out of himself, into a darkness that was more absolute and atrocious than any holding cell. A blank, yawning emptiness seemed to suck all the strength out of his soul in an instant, leaving nothing but a void in its wake. His mind tumbled down into a bottomless chasm, and all semblance of human thought became lost to him. At that point, it was impossible to think. Impossible to ponder what was happening to him. He was gone.
The very substance of the darkness enveloping Ace ripped at the hidden substance of his soul like some terrible predator, and that long dormant part inside of him recoiled even deeper then it already was to escape the brazen, hellish attack. He struggled against the tide of black destruction, but its grip was far too powerful and his defenses far too inexperienced to win the metaphysical battle. Like an animal caught in the jaws of some great hulking beast, Ace's soul lurched madly in any direction it could, trying desperately to break away, to keep itself from being sundered apart. But the darkness was a vicious thing, indefatigable in its pursuit, unswerving in its purpose.
Yet, in this instance, that purpose had already been fulfilled. What it sought to lock away lay untapped and latent; an undiscovered part of the whole. How… excruciating… to have to bury something so vital and intrinsic even deeper; push it further down into a place where it had no hope of returning on its own. How irrevocably agonizing.
Portgas D. Ace collapsed between the two men like a limp ragdoll, spine bent awkwardly as he involuntarily writhed, caught under the bone-chilling effects of the synergy cuffs. Stretched thin and crumbling from the inside, Ace forgot himself; who he was, where he was, what he'd been doing, what he'd been feeling; all of it gone, swept away beyond his reach. Only agony - such agony - remained.
As well as darkness.
Somewhere in the dark, that terrible hungry dark, loomed a cage, and he could feel it closing in on him now, threatening to draw that secret piece of his soul down into a vast, gaping maw from which there was no return. With a hoarse, inward scream – half in pain, half in terror – Ace felt the cage slam shut deep inside him, taking something with it. Something he couldn't name. Something the entirety of his being mourned the loss of—
The connection snapped.
The force of it sent Ace catapulting back into reality. Ragged and bleeding, his tattered soul staggered backward, trying to reorient itself with the body it had been pulled from. Only there was something off about it, almost alien, like it was incomplete or missing a fragment that had been there before but as an unobtrusive part of him.
Now that something was gone and in its absence Ace felt fractured. Violated. Wrong.
So damn wrong it made him feel ill…
Gasping, desperate for air, Ace cracked open bloodshot eyes, raw muscles chafing as he choked, throat convulsing around a mouthful of hot, wet blood. Waves of sickness, ghastly in their intensity, rose up from his gut, prodding his gag reflex with hot knives. The welling of stomach acid in his ravaged esophagus burned. Brought tears to his eyes, the scorching pain more than he could take, and he sobbed under its overwhelming weight, wanting, needing it to end.
Stop.
Pleasegodjuststop!
But it was too late.
Far too late.
Now, weak, fading, possessing no strength to resist plunging into that sharp, jagged crater his soul had become, with no sense of self and no stability, Ace understood. Somehow. Someway. It reached him.
Too. Late.
He was going to die.
From the inside out, he would die down here.
It would be.
So easy.
To give in.
Take that one step away from the dark, the agony, the unbearable sense of wrongness.
Fall into that empty space.
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It came fast and hard, out of nowhere, rushing through him with all the fury and force of a pyroclastic flow from a volcano; a bright flash in his head, in his scattered, broken soul. A falling star. A light in the darkness. A flare to ward off the ravenous wolves.
Inside, down, around the edges, at the farthest recess of his being… a painless explosion of white light ignited, surrounding him in noise; voices and thoughts, emotion and sensation. It all roared through him, strangely familiar, but oddly muffled. As if he'd heard it all before but on a different frequency, a different level that wasn't as diluted as it was now.
Together as one the light and the noise lunged at the dark enveloping the entirety of his being. Pushing it back, shoving it away from his center, from the seat of his soul. It fought for every inch and every step forward; relentless and unwavering. The intensity was overpowering.
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The Right Hand kicked back against the wall, broad shoulders slouched lazily as he watched the Neglected march towards the cell door, shackles and keys alike chinking delicately in the quiet. Arms folded carelessly, heavy Vice Admiral coat bunched around his crossed legs, Azrael gave off the very impression of indolence. Anyone watching him would never know that he was beside himself with curiosity. And anticipation. So much anticipation.
Luckily Xanthir wasn't just anyone.
"Azrael…" Frosty. Low. A warning.
Said investment rolled his head up to stare wide-eyed at his creator, eerie green gaze brimming with exaggerated disbelief. An unstable grin wobbled on his lips, dancing between insanity and eager sadism. When he spoke it was with too much emotion, too much zeal and intensity, his voice echoing through the Fade in leaps and bounds, rising and falling unnaturally, "Ahh, c'mon! Indulge me a little, you uptight snake! Aren't you excited? How can you not be excited! We're finally going to see them in action! After all that fucking fighting with him, I finally get to see it! Ha! I. Can't. Wait!" Dark tones. A sick serpentine hiss.
If Xanthir was bothered at all by the volatile enthusiasm his creation exuded, he didn't show it. His face remained unreadable, his posture a cool, deceptive stance that belied any true hint of his feelings. He stared straight ahead, glacial gaze never straying, forever fixated on the next step that would take him closer to his goal.
And right now he was advancing, moving forward. All he had to do was wait and watch. The first test – the real test – was about to begin. Although there was one thing…
Soulless purple eyes narrowed marginally above a thin mouth that pulled just the slightest bit downward; a touch of displeasure flaring in pale, aristocratic features.
"While I enjoy your fervor, do not let it dictate your persona; it is distracting my senses and I must be focused for what is to come. Tone it down now."
Powerless to resist such an order the Right Hand stilled—everything about him skidding to a standstill. The demented glint (always present in some capacity) in cruel viridian depths slinking back behind a layer of laid-back insouciance. Every emotion losing its embellished verve and without it that muted verdant aura of his couldn't flare up wildly. Couldn't reach out with invisible green fingers to poke and prod and annoy the black twisted one that hovered like a stormcloud beside it.
Now all was calm. Now… he could watch in peace without the constant brush and blaze (of overly exuberant emerald) against his senses.
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A clear jade gaze peered closely through steel bars, lanquid interest swimming around the jet pupil. "Would you look at that." Azrael scoffed sardonically, lips curled in a smirk. "It's almost like he can sense it. A bad thing for him," he chuckled, unholy eyes gleaming and wicked and hungry, "since all its doing is driving him out of his mind with terror."
A beat of silence; the sound of panic, of quick shallow breaths ripped from burning lungs, the only noise worth noting.
Xanthir studied the quivering mess the human had become, looking him up and down with callous disregard, taking in all the details of Ace's reaction with the impersonal diligence of a surgeon. So far everything is going well, he decided privately, the ghost of a complacent smile on his face.
"He can sense it if only because his Gifted blood outshines his humanity even when dormant. Remember, for a cross-breed of his content there is only so much mortal blood to blind him, however, it is not enough to shield his Hearts-Blood from the cuffs." The Skeleton King declared smoothly with no small amount of satisfaction.
The synergy cuffs were working.
A tinge of cruelty stretched the smug smile wider, just a tad, but the emotion was there. Like the subtle dagger in the boot; hidden, barely seen, sharp, and utterly deadly.
"The terror you see is little but a cry of despair from a Hearts-Blood with no hold and no flesh. Yet still the residue of its existence echoes, convulsing inside the human soul; its cage of mortality. Without the Gift he can never ascend, thus his Hearts-Blood cannot come forth, it can only be driven deeper."
Azrael glanced to the side, saw dark expectation in even darker eyes, before slanting back to gaze upon the shaking form of Portgas D. Ace. The human groaned as he was pulled none too gently to his feet and the Right Hand instantly noted that he had trouble standing. But that was to be expected. He was weak… well, weaker now, and trembling with instinctive fear, the muscles in his legs quaking spasmodically. Tch, so pathetic.
He snorted, thinking over his creator's words, coming to the obvious conclusion. "Won't that kill him?"
Xanthir's silver brow furrowed, head tilting slightly, the move filled with careless arrogance and cool finality. "Such is possible. Though I do believe this particular human will prevail; his mortal blood is stubborn."
The abrupt stillness in the humans bright scintillating aura drew their attention away from the conversation, and they focused on Ace and the firestorm red of his soul shade; its frantic pulse and ebb had calmed like a pool of disturbed water left alone. But not from calm did it still. What came wafting up their sensitive nostrils was not the scent of tranquility. This scent was coarse smelling, tangy and piquant; it roused within Azrael a predatory excitement that lit up his smirking green eyes, called back that glint of sadism. Though it did not resurface completely.
What they smelled was the pungent, base scent of terror. In its truest form. Pure and undiluted by human intelligence and thought patterns. Wholly instinctive. It was a fear driven by the most primal of forces. Self-preservation. Survival. Life.
In other words, the fear of death.
And now they were seeing the results of its pull—its influence on the mind and body.
And much like a scientist supervising an experiment Xanthir paid very, very close attention to everything; using every sense; watching through both the physical and the metaphysical. He did not want to miss anything that could jeopardize his mission. His goal.
"I'll never understand mortals. Freezing like that only guarantees death, doesn't he know that?" Azrael muttered, sniffing, gaze trained on the stiff, unmoving body between the bars. Ugh, stupid human.
The Skeleton King ignored his Right Hand's snide commentary, too focused on Ace's body language and aura fluctuation to voice a retort. With a sharp, detached gaze he observed the widening of sable eyes, the pupils dilating, lids peeling back in what he knew to be the bodily sign of overwhelming paranoia and fear. A normal response from a prey animal that had lost sight of its predator. The Neglected in possession of the synergy cuffs had walked behind the human, thus the sudden onslaught of agitated tension.
To Xanthir the mortal reacted like a common animal, all darting eyes and restless adrenaline, meager senses looking for something that wasn't there. Then it happened.
Finally. The moment had come.
The synergy cuffs clicked shut around two bloodied wrists.
The effect was instantaneous. Vicious. He could see the scope of its power as it swept through Portgas D. Ace, stabbing down into his soul, all purpose and no sentience. It was a tidal wave of essence, of solidified Hearts-Blood, and it had one intention. To dominate and negate the presence of any other Hearts-Blood for the body could not host two; two souls, two synergies. One would always be repelled; recoiling from the opposing force, the threat. But only if the separation happened.
If Ace couldn't handle the change, couldn't separate the two in time, there would be nothing left to find. If his human blood refused to come forward, take the reins away from the slumbering dragon hidden within, then Portgas D. Ace would simply cease to exist.
No one could survive without a working Hearts-Blood, not even a mixed breed with a dormant beast.
He would die like so many Gifted before him. So many who couldn't let go of the dragon. So many who refused to latch on to their buried humanity and perished because the two Hearts-Blood canceled each other out. Xanthir hoped this one was different. He needed him to be different.
Seconds later the screaming started: tortured, hoarse wails that bounced off the stone walls, echoing eerily.
Not that it bothered him. As long as there were no death rattles, screaming suited Xanthir just fine.
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It was bland. Boring. Flat.
There was no depth to it. No hidden iridescence. Nothing of preternatural origin remained; his soul lay empty, desolate as any desert, the vivid crimson heralding his soul-shade a sad, muted coral that alluded to his status as a full-fledged groundling. Portgas D. Ace was utterly, irrevocably human and nothing short of a miracle would be able to bring his paltry Hearts-Blood back from oblivion. The influence of the Black dragon was gone. Swept away by an older, more powerful presence.
But of course the slumbering beast inside had cowed, dissipating and bowing to a force greater than it; stronger than it. Jineiia's elder brother definitely fit that description; he had multiple centuries on Ace who had barely made it into his third decade. His Hearts-Blood - weak, dormant, and diluted by human blood - couldn't possibly compare or compete with the essence of a Third Generation Gifted.
In the end, it was Ace's apparent humanity—that human blood of his—that had ensured his survival. His weakness had become his strength, not that it would save him; he was mortal now and that wasn't worth much in the current circumstance.
Not much at all, Xanthir mused, marble visage eerily still and tranquil; the wolf in sheep's skin.
At best he was a tool. To be honed and wielded to suit his ambitions, to further his goals, to be the bait.
The lure. The irresistible call that would summon them to his side, bring them within range so that he might claim and take and brand them as his. Only his. Always his. The Wyvern Sisters. The Vessels. Jineiia and Sklestia.
Mine… a twisted, malignant voice hissed from the rotted hollow of his soul.
Xanthir agreed whole-heartedly. But not yet.
There was still much to do, though he was one step closer…
One step closer to them.
The proof lay in the human held by his two Neglected. Still breathing. Still alive.
Still useful.
If a little unconscious at present. An appropriate state for the filth, he decided, the barest touch of a sneer curling the edge of his lip. He'd rather not deal with the pirate upon his waking; they were an annoying waste of time and attention and he had not the patience for such at the moment.
Let the sundered soul inside you keep you weak and asleep.
The wordless intent – or perhaps, a silent warning – lived in his eyes; cool, unrelenting amethyst that beheld the tormented heap of flesh that was Portgas D. Ace.
Pathetic came to mind. Frail echoed after. Loathsome followed at its heels. And the snide, familiar term of Disgusting was his thoughts crowning jewel. As it usually was when Xanthir found himself in the unfortunate company of a mortal.
Thankfully not for long.
For the play was about to begin, the stage nearly set, the players waiting for their cue, all they needed to do was take their leading positions. And then…
Showtime.
His authority a silent, supreme force of influence, the Skeleton King bid his puppets to move.
Purpose fulfilled Xanthir whirled on his heel and prowled down the hall, heavy silks rustling about his lean frame. Two seconds later, much like a spectral wraith, he vanished, unseen and unheard into the Fade.
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An eyebrow twitched. Eyes narrowed. You're just going to leave me here? With the Neglected and the stupid human?
No answer. Not even a metaphysical niggle of annoyance or a mental shove to be silent. Xanthir was ignoring him…
Utter bastard.
Azrael glared down the length of the corridor, lime green eyes swirling with every scandalized emotion in existence. Seriously?
"…"
He threw his hands up, quite affronted. "Fine!" the Right Hand growled in frustration before he kicked away from the wall, rankled gaze swinging to the bait and the minions.
Ugh.
He despised the mindlessness of the Neglected; they were so damn empty and they sucked at conversation. Not good company to be sure. One may question whether they could even be called company at all! The whole missing-a-soul part put a pretty big wrench in being an individual anyway. If you had no soul what the hell was there to talk about, right?
Azrael snorted, head twitching irritably as he stalked over to the door of Ace's holding cell. Lazily raising a leg he kicked the thing clear off its hinges, the force behind his foot sending the door flying forward till it slammed into the back wall with a deafening crash. BANG!
Patience wasn't his forte. It really wasn't. Not when there were orders to follow, people to kill, limbs to rip off.
Gods, he ached to rip something off. A head, a foot, anything!
But not until everyone had found their place.
He sneered, a potent mix of menace and bloodlust shimmering across his irises, fingers itching to claw vacant eyes out of their sockets and crush them between his palms. Blood! He wanted, needed blood! On his hands, under his nails, dripping off-
Azrael sighed, forcibly pushing down the thickening haze of red encroaching on his eyesight… and the dementia that always followed after. Damn it. This is why you didn't leave him alone with easy prey! Weak, vulnerable prey. Injured, bloodstained prey. Bloodstained… The Right Hand snarled, snapping elongated canines and backing away from the Neglected and their baggage. Urgh. Why was he still standing there? Why wasn't he in position yet? Why did it feel like time was crawling away from him?
What the fuck was wrong? Azrael ran his hot, furious gaze over the slowpokes, a dangerous light dancing through his verdant aura, the unique green haze rippling, reacting to his disturbed mood.
The minions were about to cross the threshold of the cell, their movements stiff and formal to fit their flesh… but it was far too slow.
Azrael didn't do slow. Slow was weakness; mankind was slow, mortals were slow. He was neither, damn it! Move faster!
"Move it, you undead freaks! Faster!" he bellowed out into the silence, his features tight with impatience, eerie irises blazing with something only a madman could possess.
The Neglected, in their human disguises and facades, kicked it up to double-time. The staccato beat of their boot falls echoing as they marched down the cold stone corridor, the puppet-Akainu stalking them from behind.
Further back still, looming like an emerald hurricane skulked their intangible supervisor; a thin, cantankerous scowl shadowing his face.
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Wednesday evening, 2:46, June 7, Marineford Battlements...
From his vantage point high up on the ramparts, Mihawk could see where the brutality of war would begin… and eventually end. The marines had set the field, their pieces arranged in clever battle formations, weapons loaded, the electric thrum of restless anticipation nipping at his senses from all directions. It was attenuated. It was irritating. It was suspicious.
For two reasons.
One: the emotional charge in the air felt thin at best, whereas a gathering of this magnitude should've choked any breathing space with feeling. Instead of a raging migraine from all the unwanted sensation the undercover Gifted merely curled his proverbial lip in minor annoyance. Where was all that emotion? Humans as a species were largely emotional beings, they couldn't hide their psychological responses, not with all the training in the world. A sharp nose and a keen Mind Flow would be able to perceive the emotive quality surrounding them, the one that bled their reactions into the very air itself.
Yet here he was, mind unfettered by too much stimuli, while being both intrigued and irked by the conundrum.
Two: his instincts weren't cooperating. Rather than urging him to stand and fight, to bleed someone, they urged him to flee; an action that grated against his honor as a swordsman and his values as a Sentinel. For all his centuries of life his instincts had never bid him to turn tail and run. Never. So the intensity of his suspicion was warranted. Along with his need to identify the source feeding his unusual conflict.
"Oi, oi, Swordsman," the slithering drawl of Donquixote Doflamingo broke the Vampire dragon from his rumination, "are you going to join in on the fun when it comes or just stand back and watch?"
Cool amber slid sideways in a glance, meeting those trademark sunglasses in a brief but potent stare-down. He said nothing in reply. He didn't need words to communicate his intentions. Fingers twitching once, the only sign of his exasperation for the man who had unknowingly disrupted his thoughts, Mihawk turned away, that penetrating gaze of his sweeping the soon-to-be battlefield laid out in front of him.
To anyone who knew war – had lived through it, breathed it, even nurtured the chaos of it – the battlefield appeared normal. The numbers, the tools, the static verve of readiness and the grim bite of fear; it was all very familiar. Except for one extra component.
The Fade.
Borderland of the Void.
Territory of the Shadow Walker.
Nicknamed the Unseen realm by many who were spellbound by its enigmatic reputation.
And it was shifting; the edges of it moving and rippling like a disturbed pool after a stones throw.
Lacking the blood of the Shadow Walker Mihawk had not the ability to access said realm, but as a Gifted he could sense when it stirred and eddied, its touch like that of a feather against the psyche. Most, if they were lucky or just in the right place at the right time, described a brush with the Fade as a whisper in the mind, a stillness in the soul, or an invisible windstorm against the scales. Too bad Mihawk didn't believe in luck or coincidence…
What he did believe in was knowledge and that knowledge told him that something was very wrong with the Fade. Or, at least, his perception of it.
Being a Sentinel and not a Magister – someone who knew how to feel, read, and interpret the edges of the Unseen – he should've been quite blind to any and all nuances of the mysterious plane, but for the most obvious of shifts within its ghostly confines. And yet, there he stood among his fellow shichibukai, senses under-siege by intangible forces that prodded and poked at the hidden beast deep inside him. Tugging, teasing, and nudging at his Mind Flow as a child might chuck rocks into a quickly moving stream if only to see its flow interrupted. It was an oddly unnerving sensation, the feeling of something Other pouring into your soul, the pieces that made you up moving as it slithered through the essence of your existence.
If he'd been alone Mihawk would've allowed the snarl lurking beneath his mask of cold disinterest to twist his impassive features. But he kept it locked away… with all the other unsuitable expressions.
It was best to keep his thoughts inside, his true countenance hidden, especially now.
When he wasn't the only beast hiding among the ignorant mortals… One of which continued to test his patience with a Cheshire grin and low, pugnacious chuckling.
Mihawk had no tolerance whatsoever in dealing with outré mortals looking for entertainment; he refused to respond to the other shichibukai's antagonistic prodding, it was a waste of his time and attention of which needed to be focused elsewhere.
"Donquixote Doflamingo." The cool, dispassionate use of his name had Doflamingo raising an eyebrow, still grinning, still pushing. But curious. Expectant. Then those strange gold eyes gradually slid in his direction from where the swordsman had been staring off into the far distance. The moment they clashed against his sunglasses, slipping past the reflective lenses as if they were no obstruction at all, Doflamingo felt it.
The inexplicable need to back away. The instinctive pulse of fear one feels when faced with an apex predator. Anyone sane would take heed; react to the apprehension, recoil—Doflamingo laughed, spine tingling with adrenaline, utterly exhilarated.
Fearless.
But not stupid. He recognized the warning; the only one this man would give before…
A wide, sick smile accompanied by a whirl of spidery fingers right under Mihawk's nose heralded the shichibukai's sudden leave-taking.
If he was anyone other than himself the vampire dragon would have sighed heavily with an air of distinct long-suffering. But as it were he only turned his gaze forward, staring with all the stoicism he was known for, once more lost in his thoughts and ruminations.
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Wednesday evening, 3:29, June 7, Marineford Courtyard...
Monkey D. Garp sat on the execution platform, broad shoulders hunched inward like an abused child's, and felt the prickling of his internal clock. He could not stop the flinch as three-thirty finally came crashing down on his sanity. And not for the first time did he question if he was strong enough - insane enough - to hold fast to his decision.
Hold fast to Duty.
While forsaking Family.
But he couldn't turn back now; his decision had been made, his side picked, and now it was time to face the consequences.
The doors were opening.
He could hear the hinges shifting, bearing the weight of polished oaken wood as it swung wide to allow passage. How he wished it would jam instead. Ignoring it was futile, the signs were all around him; the marines stationed closet to the platform turning to stare with hateful eyes, lips sneering, smugness etched into every nuance of their expression as they watched the procession of Portgas D. Ace approach.
Garp didn't move, didn't turn around to gloat and crow over the spectacle that was his (adopted) grandson. For one, he wasn't that heartless, and two, he'd already had his fill of roasting Ace for all his stupid, idiotic actions in life. There was also the tiny, reluctant fact that if he looked right now, saw Ace with his own two eyes, he would lose the battle with his self-control.
The hot flood of tears he could feel burning the backs of his eyeballs would spring forth, and his grief would then be on display, emotions and connections alluding to his involvement being broadcast to the entirety of Marineford. He couldn't afford to lose the tenuous grip he had on his composure. So he sat, frozen; willingly thrusting himself into a perpetual state of denial. Black eyes staring down, forward, away, unwavering in his will, in his damned decision.
He would not look upon Ace.
He would not look upon the face of the son of the man he'd made a promise to.
Garp loathed breaking promises.
Where are you? Why aren't you here yet? You made the same promise that I did? Where. Are. You?
The Vice Admiral felt his eyes slip shut against his will, his head bowed slightly forward, shadows creeping over his face, and thought with a tone of pleading, I've never broken a promise, not once, please don't let it start with this.
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He wished he were deaf. Without a lick of hearing. His world blessed with silence and not the echoing, approaching footsteps coming up behind him. God, he wished, but when did simply wishing for something have any actual bearing on reality? Garp let loose a rusty, mirthless chuckle. The answer was never.
With his sharp ears could hear everything.
Every step. Every rustle. Every click and clack of shack—wait, what was that? That sound? Heavy brows furrowed over a pair of uncomprehending black eyes as he puzzled over the weird chiming. It reminded him of…
Bells… Bells?
Tinkling and ringing in his ears, oddly beautiful, and horribly out of place. Garp didn't understand.
He knew the sound of regulation shackles, knew it well, and he didn't hear it. Only the pure song of clinking bells that belonged more at a wedding rather than an execution.
Confusion was a nice distraction in this instance – better than feeling grief, or suffering conflict – until he caught a glimpse of the bells? out of the corner of his eye. The recognition was there, welling from the spring of his memory, colored a vibrant crimson, resembling ruby.
Manacles…
Garp's eyes immediately narrowed, focusing on the strange restraints, unknowing that his head had turned fully toward Ace. In that moment all that mattered to the Vice Admiral was figuring out why his grandson wasn't fettered in seastone. Then of course there was the biggest question of all, and it came upon him fast; without warning, swelling in his brain until he was consumed with the conundrum… and something else.
What part did these mysterious shackles play in all this? Were they seastone? A new version, perhaps?
No, he decided, frowning, the sheen of calculation swimming in dark eyes as he observed the bizarre red substance swirling inside. No, those aren't seastone.
They were something he'd never encountered before.
And.
His instincts whispered to him, softly, abruptly, like the unexpected dawning of an epiphany. A sudden intuitive perception.
Those things weren't natural.
After that thought – an insight, really – sank in, buried itself into his understanding, words came, unbidden, from the depths of his consciousness. Unforeseen. Unanticipated. Words like grotesque and horrific and blasphemous. Dozens of them, all of a morbid nature, appearing in front of his mind's eye to soon be replaced with another and another and another.
The assembly line of disturbing adjectives finally stopped when he looked away, shaken and unnerved. Heart pounding. Garp drew in a deep breath and held it for a while, trying to settle his spirit, reclaim his calm, steady nerves; what kind of man was he to be disquieted by a pair of abnormal (twisted, monstrous abominations, his instincts hissed in the background) shackles, anyway?
He was better than that. Furthermore, it was a strange world he lived in, not all it known or explored, so why should this alarm him? Why did he feel compelled to be frightened and disgusted by them? They were just a pair of broken, oddly made, oddly colored irons which he found to be quite unsettling.
But why?
Hesitantly, Garp glanced at Ace—he felt his chest constrict painfully at seeing his grandson slumped over on his knees, seemingly unconscious—his eyes both inexplicably drawn and repelled by the red things. Garp stared a moment, jaw clenching from some unknown, unidentifiable emotion, however, he ripped his gaze away before it could take hold of him, slanting his sight upward to look at his superior, Sengoku, with a burning question on his tongue.
"Oi…" he grumbled, ever so careful to keep his tone normal, his voice sounding gruff and brisk and casual. "What the hell are those things? Sengoku, you bastard, those don't look like regulation restraints! What the hell are you doing?"
Never one to suffer any of his crap, the Fleet Admiral responded in kind, stern face whipping in his direction with a well-used scowl. Or maybe it was a snarl. Garp really wasn't sure, he'd seen it too many times - more often than not in his general direction.
"You have eyes, Garp! I shouldn't have to tell you what is right in front of you!" Sengoku clamored loudly, arms crossed in his usual stance when dealing with the Hero of the Marines.
Garp mirrored the posture, except he was seated.
Adopting a mulish expression said Hero fired back, somewhat childishly, "But why are they red?"
The annoyed Fleet Admiral glared at his subordinate, inwardly knowing the man was instigating an argument. For some God awful reason beyond his understanding, and here of all places too. He huffed irritably, disliking the brewing headache threatening his temples.
"Garp! Stop badgering me with questions I don't know the answers to! Just accept it for what it is!"
A bushy grey brow slowly crept towards a receding hairline; Monkey D. Garp faced his friend and superior with an innocent countenance. "And what is it? Seastone? Never seen seastone that was red before."
Sengoku nearly sputtered at that last bit, grounding his pearly whites at the audacity, then again, this was Garp he was dealing with, and the man loved his little pot-shots because he knew they irked him so much. Although, his curiosity was warranted since the Vice Admiral hadn't been at the meeting where Akainu had disclosed the origin of the shackles.
And their enigmatic contributor, Xanthir.
Locking eyes with Garp, the Fleet Admiral conveyed all that had been discussed in the meeting. Divulging the main points only, however. He kept his suspicions about the whole business, his wariness about the broken manacles, and his fears involving the ominous character who called himself Xanthir to himself. He didn't need unrest in his own men when the war he knew was coming was so close at hand.
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He should be rejoicing. Happy. Eager. Crowing with anticipation and vengeful retribution. He should be beside himself with hope and excitement. What marine wouldn't feel utterly elated with an even playing field between them and the Wyvern Sisters? What marine wouldn't feel himself shake with joy and relief when they heard they possessed something that had the capacity to down the infamous flying fiends?
The news should have made him feel ridiculously ebullient.
But.
It did the opposite. Because he knew them.
And now he could no longer disregard it. That eerie sentiment churning deep in his bones; he'd been able to ignore the emotion earlier, distract himself from it while talking to Sengoku, but now the sensation was back, worse than ever. It was a pounding in his brain, so fierce that it threatened to split his skull in two. A sense of foreboding so black and terrible that it twisted all his thoughts and emotions into daymares.
All centered around those pretty-as-a-ruby, unnatural things around Ace's bloodied wrists.
Hidden beneath his generous mustache Garp grimaced. For the life of him, he could not bring himself to call them shackles or manacles or fetters or irons or restraints. Not now. Not after what he'd been told. Not with this feeling festering inside him like a poison.
Sengoku, what have you done!? Damn imbecile! Was he the only one who had misgivings about the Fleet Admirals decision? About taking something from someone who wasn't an affiliate of the marines? Someone who they knew nothing about, whose loyalties were largely unknown, motives even more so?
Was he really the only one cursed with feeling sick and terrified and violated just by looking at the red things around his grandson's wrists?
Glancing in his superiors direction gave Monkey D. Garp his answer.
Yes. Yes, he was.
He spared the crimson cuffs with their seven links each a quicksilver gander, his throat closing, bile teasing his gag reflex as he beheld those innocently glimmering weapons; thinking that word had him swallowing back something foul. In response his grimace darkened, the lines around his mouth growing severe. As severe as the haunted shadows playing across his down-turned face when he turned away.
He'd been so eager before… Nearly chanting their names, hoping, pleading for them to appear. Now, however, he felt torn over it.
The Hero of the Marines peered out over the platform, silent and more grave than he'd ever been in his life, his dark gaze taking in everything; the marines, the cannons, the ships, the battlements, the admirals, and the shichibukai.
Most would see this as the advent of war.
More would say it was the beginnings of an execution.
But Monkey D. Garp saw it for what it was; his instincts whispering it from the depths of his mind.
A trap.
And Ace was the bait.
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Raftel, Saerdeth Valley...
Known for its sprawling emerald green foothills and rich grassland. Territory of the oldest Sea Spirit, Shinsuitama; out of the four gods she was often called the Guardian, protector of everything younger than herself, the first Watcher.
At the foot of the Saerdeth mountain range stood the structure built by the First Generation in her honor. A massive cathedral and an utter masterpiece of architecture that would put the envy in the heart of any mortal architect should they ever lay eyes upon it.
Visited quite frequently by Gifted, it was a safe haven, a place of sanctuary where one might find inner strength, hope, and revitalization; a sacred place where one might pray and ponder freely. Many Gifted were steadfast in their visitations, ever faithful to the Four Great Sea Spirits.
…
It was late. Deep into Moon Hours.
The Temple of the Guardian was illuminated by immense stalactites, each carved into intricate chandeliers, each glowing with a soft, natural light the color of whatever mana was the most dominant. This gave the inner chambers of the shrine a rainbow effect, a kaleidoscope of color sending drops of brilliance dancing across the gleaming marble floors, sable pillars, and polished stone idols, lending them an almost animated aspect.
It was easy to see the divinity in such a place, for the very air itself seemed thick with a deep, indelible love and devotion. It was the love of a mother and the devotion of a proud parent; the love of a benevolent deity watching over its children and the devotion of a protector god ready to defend its own.
It was security, affection, reassurance, and passion.
And in the heart of the temple, within the innermost sanctum loomed its central effigy; the core of the temples ambience. A towering statue of Shinsuitama, raised upright on her hunches, mighty wings spread out behind her, head held in such a way that communicated wisdom and strength to all who looked up into her stone gaze.
Valek of Ildra could feel the power of the goddesses presence as he walked up to her idol. This was his patron deity, the spirit who had inspired him to pursue his dream of being a Sentinel back when he had been nothing more than a simple fledgling. It was Shinsuitama who had bolstered his need to guard and protect and watch, Shinsuitama who had guided his career as a Sentinel and Watcher of the younger Generations. It had been Shinsuitama who had pointed him in the direction of the Third Vessel (to be) Jineiia of Ildra and claim her as his Watchling.
She knew his every fault, his every sin, his every failure.
She Watched him as he grew and matured and learned from them, building experience and reputation among his peers as he rose above his own mistakes.
Countless times throughout his life the Ember had come, hissing his shame at her clawed feet, then leaving with renewed vigor, his will restored and strengthened, unburdened by censure and despondency. For Shinsuitama only listened, never did she condemn the souls who came to her in need. She listened. She encouraged. She forgave.
And that is exactly what Valek needed. Someone who found him worthy of forgiveness when he could not find it in himself…
Crouching in reverence by the Spirits feet, Valek's sharp hearing caught the sound of footsteps approaching him from behind. He did not turn around. He knew who it was, the scintillating aura of empowered mana crystals and the chinking of precious metals heralded the entrance of a Magister he knew very well.
"Tell me," he rumbled coolly. "Why have you disturbed my vigil?"
Sethaius came up beside him, tan and teal wings folded tightly across his back, tail swishing calmly. "You know I would not seek to speak with you during Moon Hours for a petty trifle, Valek of Ildra. I carry grim news, of which one of my Magi Oracles has foreseen not too long ago." At a weighty, calculating glance from Valek the High Magister of Myranor continued. "Eberine of Ranglai is missing. The Oracle, Welema of Raal'haya, found trace amounts of a synergetic presence when she was meditating on the Fade. Her ability of clairsentience then allowed her to pursue this presence for it had lingered near the Gate of Unyielding Judgement before suddenly vacating the area, post-haste, leaving a potent stain of emotion behind."
Valek's molten gaze narrowed, grew fierce and demanding. "And the stain?"
Sethaius' aura darkened, becoming both solemn and severe in expression and body language. "We were able to study the unique synergy and found within its depth four distinct spiritual signatures. Those belonging to that of a Fourth Generation White with bloodlines in Magi, Deep Sea, and Albino. When we concentrated on the emotional stain alone we found it mostly comprised of anger, defiance, and yearning. Very intense emotions, thus why the stain was felt so easily by Welema. These are not shallow feelings that were born overnight, and I fear they have finally garnered enough influence as to sway her outward actions. Mihawk will not be pleased."
Sethaius peered at his fellow Three ascendant, a ponderous sigh leaving his nostrils. "Some centuries ago I cautioned Mihawk about allowing too strong of ties to develop between his Watchling and the hatchlings of the Second Vessels. Now we are seeing why I had any reason at all to issue a warning."
Valek turned a glacial stare upon Sethaius, pinning him with a penetrating gaze that had the Spitfire stiffening moderately. An instant of tension, of complete motionlessness crawled by before the Ember dragon released the stare and looked away, amber glowing eyes slanting upward to feast on the visage of Shinsuitama.
A plethora of tumultuous sentiment raged inside Valek, and since there was nothing in the chamber that he could break without earning the wrath of his personal deity, he had the sudden mad compulsion to lash out at Sethaius. But that would ruin his composure, actually allowing such a distasteful urge to manifest into action. He was above such tantrums, no matter how much stress he was under, he would keep it to himself, however, emotions like anger and frustration he was fine with broadcasting.
"None of this is his fault," he growled. The air around him shimmering like a mirage, the heat rising with his temper. "The Watchling has made her choice and it was hers alone; the fault lies solely with Eberine now. I would think the recklessness displayed by Jineiia and Sklestia would be above her, but the young are foolish and stupid; she is no exception. It was only a matter of time before she too fell victim to the lure of idiocy."
Sethaius, while somewhat tense, stood solidly in the face of the Ember's furious tirad. Calm and grave. He knew how to handle an angry Valek; the other Gifted was always testy whenever someone dared venture near him during his nightly sojourns at the Guardian's temple. The Spitfire lifted his great horned head and stared directly into eyes the same sheen as his own, molten gold.
"I never said it was. But you're quite right, the fault is hers entirely," the Magister conceded easily. "Along with all the consequences."
With a snort of frustration Valek turned back to look at Shinsuitama. The Spirits eyes glimmered in the mana light like living orbs, watching him. "Not all of them," he muttered darkly.
Sethaius peered at him silently, gaze sharp and unwavering. Valek could sense the question, could feel it brush up against his Mind Flow as a feather might flirt with the air.
"Because she is headed for Marineford, Sethaius."
Valek allowed that to sink in, black claws scraping across marble and corestone idly as he brooded over this newest development. This newest thorn in his hide and on top of everything else too. Was Fate attempting to break him by throwing more on his plate?
He shook his dark head, irritated by his own thoughts.
A slow, deep exhale next to him drew Valek's attention; he could feel the sudden onslaught of horror through the Bond. The overwhelming shock and the painful weight of dread as the Spitfire came to understand the gravity of Eberine's unexpected decampment.
"This will not end well." The Magisters voice was hoarse with anxiety, though his face had frozen. No expression to be seen, only his eyes and his voice and the feelings spilling over into the Bond gave any hint to his true feelings.
And what horrid feelings they were.
"No," Valek said quietly, tone hard and achingly cold. "No, it will not."
Because Xanthir was involved and no situation ever ended well when he showed his ugly, undead, murderous face.
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Wednesday evening, 3:11, June 7, somewhere in the ocean...
It was a perfect day for sailing; the sky was blue and clear, the wind was plentiful and strong, flowing in Marineford's direction, its perpetual gale a steady reminder that they were free. They had escaped.
For there was no wind in Impel Down.
None that carried the sea in its grasp; the heart-warming scent of sea salt that was a comfort to every pirate. None that dampened the cheeks and moistened the hair. No, Impel Down was marked by a stale, tasteless air. And "Knight of the Sea" Jinbei was ever glad of the reminder. That and they were above sea level…
"Has he moved at all?" Jinbei turned to the voice to see Emporio Ivankov strutting toward him, dark eyes inquisitive.
The fishman glanced at the dull wooden figurehead, gaze landing on a bright yellow shirt and red cut-offs. Monkey D. Luffy. Who after celebrating and eating with everyone had vacated the party rather abruptly to go sit silent vigil at the front of their stolen marine battleship. And that had been hours ago.
Jinbei shook his head, murmuring, "No."
Ivankov hummed thoughtfully, massive head tilting to the side as he stared mutely at mugiwara-boy. "He is vorried ve von't get there in time," he said simply, on pure observation alone. If he was anything like his father, than this was Luffy when he was anxious. Dragon always removed himself to go sit somewhere and brood when he felt the need to wallow in his emotions…
His son was no different.
"Luffy has good instincts and they've never led him wrong; he is wise to worry. The speed at which we're moving—" Jinbei trailed off suddenly, black gaze growing distant, webbed hands gripping the railing tightly as he froze. Ivankov stared at him, a brow raised in surprise. He didn't say anything, but he did watch the myriad of emotions flit through his stunned expression at light speed.
Curious.
It looked as of the fishman had stopped breathing…
As he waited the Queen of the Okama wondered if Jinbei had caught something going on down deep in the ocean; he did possess senses well tuned to the song of the sea, maybe some sea creature was talking to him, perhaps?
Another minute of curiosty trudged by before Jinbei came back to himself, and much to Ivankov perplexity, seemed to be even more stunned than he had been earlier.
"Vhat happened? Vhat did you sense down there?"
Jinbei turned wide, shell-shocked eyes to him then, and breathed one sentence that had Emporio Ivankov's heart kick-starting furiously.
"They're coming."
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Beneath the battleship a pod of Island whales sang a song only a sea dweller would understand. On and on they sang about wings and horns, and an energy that fed the sea. They sang of twins and teal, but not by blood. They sang of the Wyvern Sisters. And their rage.
A/N: You, my dear readers, have no clue how happy I am to finally be done with this chapter. If I had the money I'd throw a party just to celebrate the fact that it is finished and over with. Thank. Almighty. God!
Remember minions... Reviews give me the will to write, so please put a few words down.
Now onward to Shout Outs!
Rasne: Thank you so much for the review! It made me smile like a lunatic. The way I see it any story worth reading should be like a puzzle to the reader, each chapter should be a piece you have to analyze before you can place it. Every story should have even a little mystery to it, I think. It makes things interesting. And yes, I spend probably too much time studying a character and flushing out plots before writing them. You have no idea how flattered I am by your comment. *Blushes* Look see, I'm blushing. Lol!
Guest: Oh my God, I love you! Reading your excitement made me excited. You review came exactly when I needed it and I thank you for that. Gosh... Brilliant... Don't think anyone's called me that before. Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're wonderful!
Stray child: Your reviews are always tasteful and enlightening. I hold every word close to my heart. To hear from someone who is into your story, who is actively trying to understand the plot and its mysteries astounds me. Lol. Well, of course, Jill and Lib wouldn't be badass warriors or wilting flowers (love that term) because Jill is modeled after me - is me - and Lib is pretty much, in essence, my co-writer The Blonde Beagle and we are not badass warriors or wilting flowers. At least, I don't think we are... Hmm... Gah, do you really check it every day? God, now I feel bad about those eight months... *Grimaces* I'm glad you liked the war council; I wanted something different from anything in One piece. Was actually quite nervous about that scene since it came from a dream.
iven-chan: Your review completely dazzled me when I read it. I even got a lil teary eyed! Can you believe it. I felt so damn flattered I didn't know what to do with myself. Aside from smile like a loon for the rest of the day. Hehe. I don't even know what to say. Your review leaves me speechless. It's that awesome. Especially the book comment! Do you really think so? What books? I'm curious... You have so much faith, kinda makes me frightened. I hope I can live up to it. Lol! No matter what, indeed! *Grins shyly*
Raela-Fell: Law IS sexy. I can't imagine anyone portraying him without the sexiness. Lol!
AriaofLove: I loved your review. I can so relate to wanting to reread an entire story after an update. I've done it with many, many stories. That's one of the things I'm most worried about when writing, is if the words flow well together. I cannot read stories will bad word choice and bad sentence structure. It's almost painful for me in a way, makes me want to correct it and rewrite it. Lol! Really? I've always questioned my ability to keep them in character. Some times I'll write something, post it, and then come back to it and find Law or Kid to be OOC. It's frustrating. But reviewers like you are reassuring. Doubly so when I'm doubting my own characters. So thank you for that! XD
Huny Bajer: Every single word warmed my heart. I love to hear a fans thoughts on the progression of AD. Questions help me flush out issues with information and what to put into a chapter or what to focus on so you can understand. A lot of times I have trouble with this because I'm the author for one, so I know what everything means and I get all the hints and subtext; I forget that a reader doesn't have all the foreknowledge, so I have to thank you for your questions. It helped clear some confusion for me in my writing. On the issue with the hot and cold with Lib and Jill... If you remember, Jill's affinity is fire and Lib's is ice, this is taken from Dragon Cave where each dragon is given an elemental affinity. As for Jill hating warm... I'm curious to see where you got that notion actually. But if I had to answer it would be Jill's personal preference to like cold even though her affinity is fire. Same with Lib. And the Watcher/Watchling thing... hmm.. think Jedi Knight and his/her padawan. As for the connection between the spirits and vessels... I don't want to give spoilers...
Angel of Pandemonium: I love your enthusiam! Truly! Always love getting these types of reviews! They make me want to write! Even if I'm not in the right mood. Lol!